


you little godless thing

by TheElusiveOllie



Category: Marble Hornets
Genre: Denial, Gen, Introspection, Mental Health Issues, Mental Institutions, Self-Hatred, Self-Reflection, Wordcount: 100-1.000
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-20
Updated: 2016-01-20
Packaged: 2018-05-15 02:55:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 681
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5768653
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheElusiveOllie/pseuds/TheElusiveOllie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>This is an old bit of writing I found buried in my google docs when I was cleaning them out. For some reason I never posted it. It's not much more than fossilized introspection, but here it is.</p>
    </blockquote>





	you little godless thing

**Author's Note:**

> This is an old bit of writing I found buried in my google docs when I was cleaning them out. For some reason I never posted it. It's not much more than fossilized introspection, but here it is.

You’re gonna keep shuffling without thinking of the thing behind you. No, don’t look, don’t even _think_ about it, you dumb shit. You won’t see anything. You’re not a paranoid bastard.

~~You just keep telling yourself that.~~

The trees are appropriately bent, all jagged and spiky, just the kind of creepy backdrop you’ve come to expect to wake up in during the early hours of the morning. Your hair’s stiff with dried blood, matted and tangled with sticks and fragments of dead leaves. Your body aches from physical exertion you don’t remember participating in. Your legs feel too rigid, you can’t help but limp, you’ve been put together improperly since the night before, and you move like a poorly coordinated child. You’ve tripped over more roots and rocks than you can count. Your toes throb with each step. 

You’re somewhere in Rosswood. Your head pounds. Your teeth ache in synchrony with the dull, rhythmic pulsing in your temples.

So your average Wednesday morning, then. If it’s Wednesday. Your phone battery’s dead. You can’t check the time. You can’t even check the day.

The sun’s risen, drenching the entire woodland with watery streaks of light that’s already begun burning away at the mist blanketing the leaves, still damp from the evening you can’t remember. You picked a direction and started walking, because why try to reason your way out of here when that’s never been on the fucking table? You’ll hit the edge of the woods eventually. You always do.

This is practically routine. Should that be worrying? Probably, but hell if you’re gonna mention this to your doctor. As far as he’s concerned, you’re just a Troubled Young Man and your medication has Fixed Everything, Sir, and you’re determined to keep it that way. No more hospitals for you. No more blank stretches of wall, no more rooms without windows. Stupid innocuous things like white walls have that hidden secondary meaning now, the association of _faces_ and _the lack of_ that you don’t want to examine. So fuck _that._ On you go, tramping over drying leaf mulch and moss, full speed ahead, with a world-weary acceptance that is just your life now. You’d leveled out, you were _normal_ (liar), but, this just in: you don’t deserve that luxury.

Ever.

Keep walking. You left the mask behind, that little white-cupped-shell thing, and had to squash the awful temptation to stamp on it.

You remember what happened last time you tried that, don’t you?

‘Remembering’ isn’t a big skill of yours these days. Not that it’s ever been. But at least your years in high school weren’t punctuated by great gaps and empty stretches of lost time where you woke up miles from home, covered in injuries you had no memory sustaining, and a hollow dread working its way up the pit of your stomach. Well, no, all right, the dread is pretty much constant and always has been, but it’s in those afterspells, the moments after, when you wake on the forest floor or surrounded by the ashy walls of the hospital that you absolutely had no hand in burning _(don’t you think you’d remember a thing like that?),_ that the horror of what your life _is_ impacts you so fiercely that you can’t breathe. You’re not a big subscriber to the theories of fate or the big grand workings of the universe versus butterfly wings or some bullshit - hell, you’ve never been able to accept the idea of any sort of _god_ either, because if there was ever any kind of thing like _god,_ why would he let that little slip of twigged shadows in your nightmares exist, and why would you be forced to suffer under its eyeless glare? and on that note, why would he waste any time or thought or effort on a thing like _you?_ \- but you _know,_ with utter dead certainty, that your life has never been _yours._

You can’t see why anyone would want it, but there you go. It’s not even yours.

Just keep walking, little man.

And don’t think too hard about it.


End file.
